If you follow Star Wars, you’ll have heard about THAT scene in Andor Season 2, in which (spoilers) an Imperial officer attempts to rape a character named Bix.

It was shocking to lots of fans, and for the past week they’ve been arguing whether the scene should’ve been scrapped.

Opinions fall roughly into two camps:

1. CAMP 1: Star Wars is mostly a lighthearted space fantasy that’s typically aimed at a family audience, therefore sexual assault doesn’t belong

2. CAMP 2: Star Wars has always explored dark themes, and Andor is aimed at adults, therefore sexual assault shouldn’t be out-of-bounds.

Both of these arguments miss the real reason the scene is so off-putting in modern Star Wars (aside, of course, from the inherent unpleasantness of sexual assault).

Modern Star Wars tried to pretend sex doesn’t exist until now.

As crotchety reviewer, Mr. Plinkett, notes in his review of The Force Awakens, modern Star Wars is missing the sex appeal that undergirded the original trilogy and some of the prequels.

The sexual tension between Han Solo and Princess Leia is palpable throughout the whole series. Han spends most of the first film with his shirt almost all the way unbuttoned. Leia plays off his romantic rivalry with Luke (until they realize they’re related…whoops). And, of course, there’s Padme’s dominatrix outfit in Attack of the Clones…

Yes, darker sexual themes are also explored, such as Jabba’s Twi’lek dancer who gets fed to the rancor and the “slave Leia” costume. But these feel more natural in the narrative because it’s not the first time we’re encountering sex in the story — and cruelty isn’t the only framing by which we’re allowed to encounter it.

You need the light side of sex if you’re going to explore its dark side in Star Wars.

[NOTE: I wrote this before Episodes 4–6 released, but the criticism still stands, given the order in which this story was told.]

Andor, and the rest of modern Star Wars, is completely devoid of any sex, save for a cringey scene in The Acolyte.

It’s completely sterilized in terms of romantic tension. There’s no love, no overt attraction — nothing to make us feel these characters have any biological impulses. It’s more like everyone’s a congenial office colleague who’s just taken the workplace harassment training and couldn’t get horny anyway because they’re on too many antidepressants.

That’s why a primal, aggressive sexual assault scene feels so gratuitous, exploitative, and shocking.

Modern Star Wars goes out of its way to stop us from enjoying sex as a positive force in the universe, but then it allows us to be entertained by its worst incarnation. In this show, Bix and Andor clearly have some lingering attraction to each other, but all we get to see of it is some longing looks and a forehead bump. Meanwhile, her brutal assault gets an explicit, drawn-out scene all to itself.

No.

Sorry, Star Wars. You didn’t earn the right to use sex in that way.

Don’t play with sexual assault in your story unless you work hard to earn it.

Even if you think sexual assault has a narrative place in a darker, more serious Star Wars, it doesn’t negate the necessity of good storytelling to get there.

That’s true no matter what story you’re telling.

Sexual assault is powerful and meaningful because it happens all the time in real life, so if you’re going to introduce it into your whimsical space fantasy, it has to be done very skillfully.

Unfortunately, that’s not what happened here, and THAT’s why everyone feels wrong about it.

Shitting your pants over Trump’s erratic tariff game?

I’ve read dozens of opinions on the matter, informed and otherwise, and all I’ve managed to come up with are dozens of competing and incompatible declarations about what’s definitely, certainly, obviously going to happen. I imagine it’s been a similar experience for you (unless you’re willfully excluding opinions you don’t want to hear).

Is our strong and glorious economy about to fall off an economic cliff? Or is it dogshit wrapped in fancy paper that won’t actually change very much when the veneer gets torn away? Is history’s most insane tariff gambit actually a masterful stroke of 4D chess that will steward in a new Golden Age?

Nobody really knows what’s going to happen in the long run, so don’t believe anyone who says they do.

Maybe shitting your pants truly is the correct response, but while you head out for new underwear, take a moment to consider that pretty much every public-facing part of economics is a lie.

Nobody is working with real data anymore.

At least, not in the professional pundit or politico class — and certainly not in the doomscrolling section of the social media sewer.

The stock market is overvalued and high on hype from the same people who think Fartcoin is truly worth three-quarters of a billion dollars (as of this writing). The Consumer Price Index is manipulated into near meaninglessness to hide inflation and price gouging. Nobel-winning economists confidently proclaim that food, shelter, and energy are unimportant variables in economic forecasts.

In short, nobody sees the real picture. It’s obscured by bullshit. The entire information space in general is a cesspool of lies and marketing spin masquerading as reliable data.

Nowhere is this truer than at the intersection of economics and politics.

Consider the ultimate hot potato of economic bullshit: unemployment statistics.

When I first started paying attention to politics back during George W. Bush’s term, I learned that Republicans were juicing the unemployment statistics by not counting people who’d given up looking for work.

Dropping entirely out of the workforce due to lack of opportunity seemed to me like the purest definition of “unemployed,” but those rightwingers were like, “Uhhhh…actually…that doesn’t count.” Then, Barack Obama got elected and the script flipped. Then, it was the Democrats painting rosy pictures with gussied-up employment statistics, while Republicans pointed out the sleights-of-hand.

Cue the same cycle for Trump Season 1 and Biden after him.

Or consider the lead up to 2008’s housing market crash.

Remember how the ratings agencies gave AAA status to bundles of the riskiest mortgages imaginable so Wall Street traders could keep inflating a bubble based on imaginary spreadsheet data?

And remember how predatory lenders kept this system alive by selling the pipedream of prosperity-via-homeownership to America’s hollowed-out working class?

Remember how, when it all came crashing down, the “experts” and analysts and politicians said the only correct response was to give the architects of this failure huge bonuses and let them continue running the world?

(Seriously, look up how many of 2008’s star players found cabinet positions and other critical jobs in every single administration since, including the current one.)

“It’s a big club, and you ain’t in it.” —George Carlin

The “respectable,” “responsible” people in our media and politics have led us into disaster after disaster and faced no consequences.

Their whole careers are one giant participation trophy. In the end, they usually get better jobs and more power. It’s quite impressive, really.

Maximum effort is always made to maintain the status quo, no matter how much it fucks normal losers like you and me, and thick layers of protective bullshit are slathered around it like convulsive armor to discourage us from questioning the vaunted wisdom of the bovine fecalists.

Now, we’re at another inflection point where the general public is asking, “what the fuck’s happening,” and everyone who was wrong or lied about everything is quick to say, “Here’s exactly how it’s going to be.”

And the biggest liar of them all is the President

Lest anyone think I’m in the MAGA crowd for daring to criticize the doomsayers, let me say that President Trump is the most prolific bullshitter of our time, lying most often about his financial success.

His resume is littered with failed businesses, bankruptcies, and lawsuits. His original allure and celebrity were fabricated out of New York City in-crowd culture, not true financial prowess. His current allure is made from spite for the very same cultural elites who created him in the first place along with a bizarre new conventional wisdom in America which claims that anyone who can do a decent standup act is worth taking seriously.

So, the bullshit goes all the way to the top.

But in a weird way, it’s sort of comforting.

It means nobody has the authority to say there isn’t hope.

So why not hope, at least some of the time, anyway?

We’re in a period of massive change not unlike similar periods in history, where the old ways of thinking don’t work like they used to. The 20th century world and its order are falling apart as new ideas and technologies take hold. Inevitably, there will be disaster, as there was at the turn of the last century. But there is also great opportunity.

So shit your pants if you must, but make sure you also invest in some sort of spiritual bidet as well.

The other week, I wrote about how attempts to silence people on speech-centered grounds just makes their positions more popular.

Then the Trump administration went after Mahmoud Khalil, a relatively unknown anti-Israel protester whose face is now plastered all over the internet and every news outlet.

Nicely done, guys.

Who is Mahmoud Khalil? Exactly.

Depending on who you ask, Khalil is either an arch-terrorist responsible for masterminding harassment campaigns of Jewish students or a pacifist scapegoat censored by hypocritical “free speech” Republicans (who may or may not be taking orders from AIPAC/Mossad/Your Local Jewish Deli Owner/Etc.) It doesn’t really matter for the purpose of my argument about censorship’s futility. It holds whether Khalil is an asshole or not.

The point is, you probably never heard of Khalil until a couple weeks ago.

The war in Gaza has been raging for almost a year-and-a-half now, with protests against Israel starting mere moments after the events of October 7. Since then, there’s been some celebrity endorsement of the anti-Israel cause and some support from expected Democrats like AOC and Rashid Tlaib, but for the most part, the identities of the actual protestors have gone without names or faces — often literally, since so many of them wear masks. This has made it easier to characterize them as an ominous mob of ruffians, and thus easier to dismiss.

Now, we can put a name and a face to their cause.

“History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes.”

Mark Twain is supposed to have said that, and it’s hard to argue here.

Trump’s team blundered Khalil’s case from the outset by framing his arrest in terms of “anti-semitism” and “national security,” which should sound familiar if you read my recent piece on Hitler. The administration then quickly tried to reframe the issue in terms of immigration law, terrorism, and whether or not the United States is obligated to offer residence to non-citizens who espouse certain viewpoints. Perhaps they have a case somewhere in there, but it doesn’t negate the weakness of their opening argument.

By starting with vague offenses that could easily be construed as protected speech, Trump’s team gave critics a perfect opportunity to make a martyr of Khalil.

Now, the administration is forced to fight a two front battle on both legal and public relation grounds, and it’s difficult to see any conditions for a satisfying victory in either arena.

Stupid Mistake or 4D Chess?

Trump’s supporters love to interpret his actions as part of an elaborate web of galaxy-brained scheming in which every move, no matter how stupid seeming, is actually a calculated outmaneuver.

Such an interpretation is being attempted right now.

The theory goes that Khalil was chosen specifically to bait Democrats into defending unpopular territory. Despite what you see on social media, the general public is fairly sympathetic to Israel, and they’re definitely not impressed by some of the antics employed by anti-Israel protestors on campus. It’s unclear to what degree Khalil was truly involved with the worst elements of this, and as of this writing, he’s yet to be charged with an actual crime, but his association with the movement is enough for some people to assume guilt.

It’s also an easy assumption that whatever Trump is for, the left will be reflexively against, so if Trump comes out against an “America-hating terrorist sympathizer,” the Democrats will make supporting him their cause célèbre.

If that was the plan, then bravo, I guess. But I suspect not.

It’s much likelier Trump’s team ran afoul of the same hubristic trap that so many other leaders have fallen into throughout history — the idea that it’s both easy and wise to shut up inconvenient people. It’s not and never will be, no matter what level of tyranny the ruling class is willing to exert in the effort.

Again I ask how many times we have to learn this lesson.

If Khalil is guilty of actual crimes, then he should be charged with them and punished. That should’ve been the plan all along. Sure, his defenders would probably still attempt to claim persecution on grounds of free expression, but they’d have less ammunition to work with and fewer allies. And Trump wouldn’t have sullied his reputation with people who would otherwise have been on his side but who fear the precedent that could be set by these actions.

So even if this is 4D chess, it’s still a weak move.

When I think of Nazi Germany, “free-wheeling marketplace of ideas” isn’t the first thing that springs to mind.

And yet, last week Face the Nation’s Margaret Brennan, in her relentless quest to surrender as much of CBS’s credibility as possible, claimed the Third Reich was a place where “free speech was weaponized to conduct a genocide.” This astonishing statement was followed by a 60 Minutes segment covering German police efforts to tackle hate speech and misinformation online. The piece approvingly documented raids by armed German police officers of the houses of German citizens found guilty of offensive tweets and memes.

Yes, that’s right. Uniformed men with guns kicked down doors to arrest people for things they’d written. But it’s the memesters who are supposed to remind us of Nazis.

Believe it if you can, dear reader.

You know who else liked free speech…?

The not-so-subtly implied takeaway from both pieces and others like them is that free expression, whether tweets from German shitposters or speeches by the Vice President of the United States, is a slippery slope that leads directly to Hitler.

It’s a tragically ignorant thing to believe when you look at the facts, as I will soon demonstrate. But it’s downright sinister when promoted by representatives of the supposedly free press, who should (and probably do) know better. The whole thing drips with authoritarian condescension, so let’s put this myth to rest with extreme prejudice.

Free speech absolutely did NOT bring the Nazis to power, nor was it championed by them once they were in power.

The truth is almost the exact inverse.

Censorship and speech restriction were instrumental to the Nazis’ rise as well as their reign of terror.

Don’t fall for the Weimar Fallacy

It’s often suggested that if only the German government had tamped down on the Nazis when they were a fledgling political movement, Hitler would never have come to power.

This is called the Weimar Fallacy (because Germany’s government was called the Weimar Republic at the time) and it’s completely ahistorical. Germany did have laws limiting speech on a number of issues, including antisemitism, and the Weimar government frequently used those laws to crackdown on Nazis. They’d disrupt Nazi events, deplatform speakers, and even imprison prominent party members, such as Julius Streicher, founder of the racist, antisemitic newspaper, Der Stürmer.

All this did was make the Nazis more popular.

It allowed them to portray themselves as victims of a tyrannical government which despised its own loyal citizens. This resonated deeply with many Germans in the 1920s and 30s, who also felt betrayed by their government after its capitulation in the First World War. Foreign boots had never touched German soil the entire war, and yet ordinary Germans were subjected to harsh sanctions and humiliating poverty as though they were an occupied nation. Mismanagement and bad economic policy furthered the suffering of average people, who felt they had no true representation in their government.

Hitler attributed this degraded state of affairs to systemic corruption by conspiratorial forces, and the fact that the system kept conspiring to silence him only strengthened his case.

Assume your opponent will one day have access to your weapons

Once in power, the Nazis used the very same censorship laws they suffered under to oppress their opposition.

The original speech codes were designed to stamp out radicalism, so all the Nazis had to do was define their opponents as radicals. Then they could justify their own brutal crackdowns as matters of national safety. Cue uniformed policemen kicking down doors and burning books in the town square.

Even in Hitler’s inner circle, a culture of censorship prevailed.

He’d fire military experts and policymakers when their observations about reality didn’t line up with his preferences. A constant fear of saying the wrong thing permeated amongst his most trusted advisors, until only sycophants and yes-men remained. Ultimately, Hitler’s severance from objective truth led to catastrophic strategic blunders that unraveled the Third Reich at the cost of millions of German lives (and tens of millions of non-German lives).

So, no. Free speech wasn’t involved in any part of this.

Fear isn’t a good reason to accept bad arguments

One has to wonder why anyone would even attempt to argue such a ridiculous and easily disproved point.

Undoubtedly fear has something to do with the answer.

I know lots of people are unsettled by the shameful rhetoric that’s thrown around these days. Many are also disconcerted by the rapid decentralization of information that’s occurred over the past decade, making it easier than ever for unscrupulous actors to gain audiences and influence. Many also see one-too-many reminders of the not-so-distant past.

Hitler’s era was also one of massive technological change and radical populism.

But if you really believe, as many do, that we’re living in a similar time, it might be wise to consider what really happened back then. What was tried? What failed? What should we learn from one of the darkest eras of human existence?

And why should we listen to those who refuse to learn?

One of the biggest post-election Ls for liberals has been the embargo lifting on public support for Trump, particularly among celebrities and athletes.

It used to be career suicide to express anything but hysterical contempt for the Orange Man. God help you if you said something even tepidly positive. Now, NFL players wear MAGA hats on the field and do the “Trump Dance” in between downs.  

You’ve seen the Trump Dance, right?

It’s the half-assed, geriatric shimmy Trump does at rallies to the tune of “YMCA.” It’s become cultural shorthand to show support for the President-elect, and it’s popping up all over the place, most notably in athletics. From football to soccer to the UFC, it’s the end zone dance of a newly energized American right.  

Hey, that was our thing!

“Hypocrisy much?” liberals shout at their conservative peers.

Not long ago, conservatives were the ones decrying the politicization of sports by leftwing causes such as Black Lives Matter. Right-wingers booed when players took the knee during the National Anthem, following Colin Kaepernick’s lead. They complained that ESPN had become the sportsball wing of MSNBC. They chafed at the Black National Anthem and told LeBron James to “shut up and dribble.”

“We just want to watch the game,” conservatives said then. Now, they cheer for blatant displays of partisanship from players on “their” side.

For many liberals, the takeaway is simply that conservatives never had any principles to begin with. For conservatives, it’s a sort of national coming out party. Maybe they’re both right.

But perhaps there’s a more important lesson to be learned.

Whatever weapon you give yourself will eventually be used against you.

The Trump Dance cultural phenomenon is a great example of the old axiom about power’s fleeting nature.

For the better part of two decades, liberals completely dominated every corner of entertainment outside of Fox News, and seemed to believe this state of affairs would go on forever. They interpreted their cultural hegemony as a mandate to overturn old norms regarding when and where political agitation was appropriate. Late night comedy programs, morning shows, award ceremonies, and even commercials became fair game for partisan tut-tutting.

And then there was sports.

Americans traditionally had a handshake agreement that sporting arenas were neutral territory, safe from political sermonizing (save for boilerplate patriotism, military reverence, and all things 9/11). But the left decided this state of affairs was no longer acceptable. Everything was political, whether you wanted to acknowledge it or not. No escapism allowed. “The things we have to say are too important, so you’re just going to have to deal with it,” was the attitude.

The implicit assumption was that this would only apply to one side of the conversation.

Trump’s blowout election and the subsequent gloating by public figures shows that conservatism has more cultural power than previously thought. Whether that’s good or bad is a discussion for another time. The point is you should never assume the status quo will remain forever — especially when you’re thinking about demolishing norms and traditions meant to safeguard everyone.

You never know when you’ll lose the throne.

Democrats ought to remember this cultural vibe shift when advocating for censorship.

Political cheerleading at sporting events is one thing, but there’s a much more important battle going on within the left over the righteousness and necessity of censorship.

Politicians, news organizations, and academics of the left have ratcheted up calls for speech suppression in recent years, citing rises in things like “hate” and “misinformation.” Their targets include everything from social media posts to media personalities to TV shows. And it’s all done from a position of perceived dominance in these arenas.

Just listen to the way they talk.

“If you don’t police your platforms, we’re going to hold you accountable,” Kamala Harris said during her 2019 presidential run regarding content on social media (and this was before Elon bought Twitter). Her running mate, Tim Walz, said numerous times this year that the First Amendment doesn’t protect “hate” and “misinformation.” (It does.) Hillary Clinton said, “If [social media platforms] don’t moderate and monitor content, we lose total control.” And let’s not forget the Biden-Harris administration’s failed attempt to create an Orwellian Disinformation Governance Board within the Department of Homeland Security, helmed by a woman guilty of spreading disinformation herself.

This is the stuff of parody and satire, the kind of lunacy you can’t believe people fall for in fiction, but it’s happening in real life.

The rot is cultural, not just political.

Savvy readers will, of course, note that terms like “hate” and “misinformation” are entirely subjective and can be redefined by whoever is in “control.”

Actually, that’s a lie. You don’t have to be savvy to understand this concept. It’s pretty fucking basic. And while you can expect politicians to capitalize on shallow vagaries, you’d think our self-proclaimed intellectual betters in media, academia, and journalism would see the obvious pitfalls.

You’d be wrong.

It’s not just politicians calling for more power to regulate what the rest of us can say or consume. Outlets like The Atlantic, The Washington Post, and the New York Times, which profit from the free flow of ideas, have also implied a need for more restriction on speech. So too have countless academics and students at universities supposedly founded on the pursuit of truth — in fact, a recent study suggests the majority of college students now think professors with “offensive” opinions should be reported (even if those opinions are supported by data).  

Are people just pretending not to see the danger in this or are we really that dumb?

America is one amendment away from institutionalized thought crime.

In the United States, we have the luxury of toying with censorship because our Constitution mostly prohibits the police from getting involved. Mostly.

Thanks to the First Amendment, our would-be censors have to resort to extrajudicial tactics to shut people up. They do things like pressure media companies into removing undesirable content and users, or bully advertisers into boycotts of sites like X, where unacceptable speech is said to thrive. Other times, they try peer-pressure campaigns and reputation destruction against influential voices like “horse paste eating” Joe Rogan.

But across the pond, the UK offers a much more troubling example of where calls for censorship inevitably lead.

Police in Britain will show up at your door for tweets they don't like, and normal, working class people are currently in prison for lengthier stays than pedophiles and rapists for posts on the internet. This at a time when Britain is actually releasing convicted criminals because the prisons are too crowded. There’s also the “non-crime hate incident” which allows police to create official records of people who have not committed any crime but have reportedly expressed “ill-will,” “ill-feeling,” or “dislike” towards another.

It's amazing the society that produced Orwell and Milton and Rawls could fail to see the short-sightedness of all this.

It’s only a matter of time before the censor becomes the censored.

Aside from debate over the morality of censorship, there’s an insurmountable tactical problem.

The parameters of acceptable speech are vague and will always need to be defined and policed by somebody. The pro-censorship position depends entirely on the belief that you and your allies will be the ones in charge, always and forever. It assumes your opponents will never take the reins of power and use the tools of suppression against you. It’s a bad assumption, as any glance at a history book will tell you. That’s why a neutral norm that protects free expression for all is much better and worth defending.

Which leads us back to the Trump Dance.

Liberals in America got rid of a norm that kept sports relatively neutral. Now, Trump supporters are using the Trump Dance to exploit the vacuum where that norm once existed, and it’s been very effective at amplifying conservatives’ cultural cachet. Why wouldn’t we expect a similar sort of turnabout to happen in the realm of censorship too?

In fact, you can already see how something like that might play out.

When conservatives assume power, will it become “misinformation” to say trans women are women, as Rep. Nancy Mace would have it? Will it be “hate” to tweet about abortion rights? Will “fact checkers” pressure Elon Musk to ban left-leaning X users who questioned voter turnout numbers during this election?

I sure hope not. But the door has been left wide open.

As a satire writer who’s tired of losing great premises to reality, I beg everyone not to walk through it.

Share

The building where my band rehearses is an extraordinary pile of shit. The walls are pockmarked with dents and holes, it smells like mildew and stale beer, and there is no heat or air conditioning.

The only light comes from whatever lamps you provide yourself and the only acoustic “treatment” comes from carpets torn up from the floor and nailed to the walls.

In short, it’s dark, smelly, and dingy. Not exactly the most enjoyable environment in which to create.

It’s Not My Fault, So Why Bother?

There’s plenty I could do to address some of these problems, at least in my own practice room. I could patch the holes, install acoustic treatment, put down some rugs, and so on.

But why should I?

These problems predate my tenancy — and the building was never a looker in the first place. It’s not my fault the place is such a shithole. Besides, it’s sitting on prime real estate, so it’s bound to get torn down any day now (if it doesn’t burn down first).

Clearly the logical choice is to make no attempt at improvement and just get whatever I can out of the place for myself.

Opportunity Costs and Opportunities Lost

That’s what I’ve been telling myself since 2013. As of this writing, the building is still standing. I go there every week. And all the problems I mentioned continue to exist. Many have gotten worse.

Imagine what kind of improvements I could’ve made to my little corner of this building over the past decade. Yes, there are bigger, more structural issues beyond my skill or ability to fix, but I could’ve at least made a small part of it better for me and my friends — and I could’ve taken pride in having done so (or at least making the attempt).

Imagine if all the other musicians rehearsing there took a similar stance. And imagine if we all held the building managers to a higher standard? How different would that space look today?

You Can’t Improve a Place You Don’t Care About

Many Americans, particularly of my generation and younger, see the United States the same way I saw my rehearsal space: a crumbling monstrosity wracked with incurable problems. A place that was never any good to begin with and would be too hard to fix even if you wanted to. Better to just get yours while there’s still time.

Maybe it’s because I live in an extremely progressive city, but I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with someone about the good things about living in America. I recently saw a LinkedIn post from an American art director begging for a foreigner to marry her so she could move out of “this hellscape.” An art director. Someone who moves pictures around for a living (a six-figure living, often). I don’t think they have that job in Hell.

Nary a day goes by that I don’t hear something about what a racist, imperialist, late-stage capitalist nightmare America is from tech workers, HR mangers, artists, musicians, trust-fund babies, self-described “foodies,” teachers, professors, corporate marketing execs, and now even young kids.

To be clear, America is not without problems — some of which are very serious. But surely there must be something good about the largest, richest, most culturally and ethnically diverse democracy in the history of the species. Surely there must be something worth celebrating about this place where, for the most part, everything works to a degree that would seem like magic to people even a hundred years ago. Surely there’s something about America that inspires millions of people to attempt to migrate here every year.

America’s Here, Like it or Not. Might as Well Like it.

To deny this is to make the same error I did with my rehearsal building. If you see something as fundamentally broken, bad, or destined to fail, you won’t feel any desire to take care of it or improve it. You have to believe a thing has intrinsic value before you can commit to its upkeep. Otherwise, your only option is to grab at what you can for yourself before it’s all gone.

These are the two options we Americans are faced with now. We can choose to believe that this country should never have existed, has no long-lasting value, and is doomed to failure because of these flaws. Or we can choose to believe that there are some good things about this nation that give it intrinsic value.

No matter what we choose, it’s pretty much a guarantee the United States will continue to exist for the rest of our lifespans. Despite increased strife and division, I don’t think we’ve reached the point where things will truly fall apart in any meaningful way.

Rather, we’re faced with a gradual degradation in quality of life from lack of upkeep. We risk losing more trust in our institutions and our neighbors. We risk breakdowns in innovation and entrepreneurship. We risk losing the American can-do spirit that inspires so many people to pick up their families and attempt to make something of themselves, whether they’re coming from different states or different countries.

In short, we risk losing the optimistic determinism that inspires hope in the future and faith in the fruits of hard work. It’s a terrible thing to lose on an individual level. On a national level, it’s catastrophic.

What Kind of an American Could You Be?

Do you really want to spend the rest of your life listening to people complaining about how everything sucks (and has always sucked and will always suck)? Do you really want to go to work with people like that? Or parties? Or school? Do you want to live next door to the person who doesn’t believe there’s any point in trying? Do you want to be that person?

Of course you don’t.

So this Fourth of July, take one day — just one out of 365 — to think on some things you like about America. Some good things. I bet if you put your mind to it, you’ll find more than you think. We live in a pretty great place, despite its flaws — and there are no places without flaws. You could help fix some of those flaws.  

But first you have to want it.

There are only two elements you need to get right for a good story: Characters and Worldbuilding. Everything else follows from there. Master those, and your story can withstand a tremendous amount of narrative abuse, from bad writing to cliched dialogue to gaping plot holes.

Speaking of which, today marks the 47^th anniversary of the release of Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope (or as it was called back then, just Star Wars.) It’s still considered one of the greatest films of all time, and the Star Wars universe it spawned has delighted millions of imaginations for over four decades. Neither George Lucas’ lore-obliterating prequels nor Disney’s soulless cash-grab excretions have managed to tarnish its legacy, despite tremendous effort.

Why is this? How has A New Hope withstood the test of time while so many other entries in the saga faded from view as quickly as they appeared.

The answer is character and worldbuilding. A New Hope is so strong in these departments that it can survive not only the abuse from what came after, but also its own internal inconsistencies.

To prove this, I’m going to discuss three of A New Hope’s most commonly cited plot holes and show how both the character development and worldbuilding explain why you probably didn’t notice them the first time around, and why they might not even be plot holes at all.

Since this is the film’s anniversary and it’s the first one in the saga, I’m going to treat it as a self-contained narrative, as though none of the other entries exist — because at the time, they didn’t. I’ll also be ignoring the 1997 “Special Edition” version, which inserts a number of pointless, continuity-disrupting scenes, and just generally sucks ass.

What we’ll see is that, on its own, A New Hope is a surprisingly tight narrative in which every single scene works to build the coherent, fun universe we all know and love.

So let’s get started.

Plot Hole #1: The Galaxy’s Worst Gunners

At the beginning of A New Hope, after Princess Leia has hidden the Death Star plans in R2D2’s memory banks, he and C3PO manage to escape their beleaguered ship via escape pod. The Imperials in the Star Destroyer above see this happen and this dialogue occurs:

GUNNER: There goes another one.

OFFICER: Hold your fire. There’s no life forms. Must’ve short circuited.  

Why wouldn’t they just shoot it anyway, just to be safe? Surely they realize a droid could be on the escape pod, and that it might have the stolen plans with it.

Perhaps not. This scene seems like a glaring plot hole, but it actually does a ton of worldbuilding for themes that will recur throughout the rest of the film.

One of these themes is the lowly station of droids in galactic society. From the very beginning, we’re shown that droids are basically an afterthought and not treated as equals. C3PO and R2D2 walk right through the middle of a firefight and none of the stormtroopers try to shoot them. They’re not important targets, so they’re able to walk away unscathed.

From then on out, we’re shown time and again that droids are seen more like work animals or appliances, second-class citizens at best, without true sentience or motivation of their own. They can be bought, sold, and stolen like property. They can be re-programmed for relevant tasks. They’re banned from establishments where living creatures mingle. Given this, it would be highly unlikely for someone to trust the fate of their entire political movement to a droid, much less a slow-moving, defenseless airline mechanic like R2D2. Keep in mind this is before the release of other films in the saga, where droids play a much more prominent role.

This logic might not make sense to us in real life, especially given the advancements of computer technology since 1977 but the film is very consistent about this, which is all that really matters in a story. By definition, any fictional world must have some breaks with reality but as long as the narrative sticks to the rules it creates for itself, we can effortlessly suspend our disbelief and follow the logic being shown to us.

Depicting droids as second-class citizens also does a lot of work to build the characters of Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia. Leia is shown to be a cunning and crafty rebel by choosing R2D2 as her unlikely courier for the Death Star plans. C3PO, a fellow droid, doesn’t even believe R2D2 has been given this responsibility until he sees Leia’s message at Obi Wan’s house. As for Luke, he’s the only human character who is friendly to the droids, which shows both his kindhearted character and his naivete. For example, when he takes the droids to the Mos Eisley bar, he’s told, “We don’t serve their kind here,” something all the other patrons seem to know, which tells us he’s still a green-behind-the-ears farm boy with lots to learn about the galaxy.

But we were talking about the Imperial gunners, right? Even if we assume they take everyone else’s view about droids, why not just shoot the pod anyway, just to be safe?

Their inaction lays the foundation for another theme that recurs throughout the film: the Empire’s overconfidence.

Again and again, the Imperials underestimates their opponents to their own detriment. The Empire is so massive with its battleships and space stations that the idea of a couple droids posing any kind of threat seems absurd. Darth Vader is one of the only Imperials who expresses doubt over the invincibility of the Empire’s “technological monstrosities,” and even he doesn’t take the threat too seriously, as we see when he allows Han, Luke, and Leia to escape the Death Star with the stolen plans still in hand. (More on that in minute). And if Vader’s not too worried, why would a couple of no-name gunners stationed in the bowels of a battleship be?

Hence, the lifeless escape pod goes free.

By looking at the whole film, we can see how this plot hole makes sense in the narrative. Yes, it would still have been best practice to shoot the pod down but now we can understand why they didn’t — and even if that explanation is unsatisfactory, we can at least understand why it didn’t ruin our experience with the rest of the film.

Plot Hole #2: Is Princess Leia Stupid?

After the gang escapes the Death Star and fends off the TIE fighters that pursue them, Princess Leia deduces that the Empire let them get away in order to track them to the secret Rebel base. This dialogue occurs between her and Han Solo:

LEIA:    They let us go. It’s the only explanation for the ease of our escape.

HAN:    Easy? You call that easy?

LEIA: They’re tracking us!

HAN:    Not this ship, sister.

If she knows the Empire is tracking them, why the hell does she still take them to the Rebel base? Why doesn’t she fly somewhere else, change ships, and then go to the Rebel base?

Well, let’s look to the characters and the worldbuilding.

We’ll start with Han Solo, who is ultimately in charge of where the Millennium Falcon goes and when. At this point in the story, Han hasn’t yet decided to join the Rebellion. He’s just in it for the money, which he desperately needs to pay off his debts to Jabba the Hutt.

HAN: Look, I ain’t in this for your revolution, and I’m not in it for you, Princess. I’m in it for the money. I expect to be well paid.

Think about it from his perspective. Back on Tatooine, Obi Wan promised Han 17,000 credits but only put down 2,000, promising the rest upon arrival at Alderaan. Now Obi Wan is dead, Alderaan is destroyed, and Princess Leia is hellbent on continuing her suicidal crusade. At this point, Han’s chances of getting paid are dwindling — Leia and the Rebellion might not even be around next week at this rate — so he has absolutely no reason not to take her to the base as soon as possible so he can get his cash and get out of there.

Now, let’s turn to Leia. She’s not yet friends with her rescuers and doesn’t trust their abilities. Nor should she. Han, Luke, and Chewie clearly had no real plan for her rescue and would certainly have been killed if the Empire hadn’t gone easy on them. But Han is cocky, and as we saw from the dialogue above, actually believes he earned the escape. Not great judgment. Every extra minute Leia spends with these guys is a minute they might bumble back into the hands of the Empire — and the Empire is everywhere.

This is where the worldbuilding comes in. Think back to the Tatooine spaceport, just before the boys take off in the Millennium Falcon. As the ship prepares to leave, we see stormtroopers talking to an informant, who directs them to the hangar bay. The Falcon barely manages to take off and is then immediately hunted by two Star Destroyers waiting in orbit. Tatooine is supposed to be a backwater, ass-end-of-nowhere planet, and yet the Empire already has a network of spies and ships at its disposal at a moment’s notice. There’s no reason to believe this wouldn’t be the case at some other spaceport as well, so there’s a decent chance our heroes would get caught changing ships on their way back to the Rebel base.

Finally, let’s also consider what we know about the Empire’s leadership. During the conference room scene with the Imperial officers, Darth Vader and one of the generals cast doubt over the Death Star’s invincibility. Vader even chokes a guy who criticizes him for this. So the Empire is at least aware of the possibility of the Rebels finding a weakness. It stands to reason that somebody on the Empire’s staff would be furiously pouring over the space station’s schematics, looking for that weak spot. This is confirmed later in the film when an officer informs Grand Moff Tarkin that a potential vulnerability has been discovered and asks if he’d like to evacuate.

Although Princess Leia has no direct knowledge of the Empire’s deliberations, she must assume that they’re trying to find the same weakness she hopes her own analysts will find. It’s a race. If the Empire finds the vulnerable spot first and fixes it, the Rebellion loses their only hope. She has to get those plans to them before time runs out.

So, no. Leia’s decision to fly directly to the Rebel base isn’t stupid. It makes sense based on what we know about the characters and the world they live in.

Plot Hole #3: Where’s the Emotion?

This one applies to both Luke and Leia. Both experience traumatic losses — Luke, his adoptive parents; Leia, her home planet and everyone she knows there — but neither of them show much emotion about it. Luke is upset about his Aunt and Uncle for one scene and then happy-go-lucky the rest of the film (until Obi Wan dies, who also gets only a single scene of mourning). Leia, on the other hand, is never shown grieving at all, despite having lost much more.

Pretty shitty writing, right? Maybe not. Again, the characters and worldbuilding give us the context we need to make sense of this.

From the very beginning of the film, we’re shown that this is not a gritty drama steeped in cynical realism. The first quarter of the movie is spent almost entirely with R2D2 and C3PO, bickering like an old married couple and generally providing comic relief despite their desperate situation. At the same time, Darth Vader and the Imperials convey a cold and menacing presence, which makes us feel there are real consequences for the protagonists. The rest of the film strikes a similar balance, whether its Luke almost getting his ass kicked by Tusken Raiders or Han Solo cracking jokes in the Death Star’s prison bloc.

This is actually one of the reasons most people consider The Empire Strikes Back to be the best film in the trilogy. It’s darker and more emotional, with higher stakes and existential challenges. But since A New Hope sets a lighter tone early on, it would be inappropriate to have elongated scenes of depression and trauma.

The only reason we see Luke mourning at all is because he’s the main character and these moments represent important changes to his journey. The murder of his adoptive parents represents the point in the narrative where he can no longer return to his old life. The death of Obi Wan represents the point where he must rely on himself alone, having lost his mentor. These are important changes that affect what happens next in the story.

Leia, on the other hand, is already on her path and the bad things that happen to her don’t change her goals or motivations. Her behavior is informed more by her character and surroundings. She’s tough as nails and good at bluffing, as we see from her first line of dialogue, where she basically tells Darth Vader to fuck off. This is just after he’s choked a man to death with his bare hands. She’s also good at reading people. When Luke bumbles into her prison cell disguised as a stormtrooper, she can tell before he even takes his helmet off that he’s not a professional. Immediately after this, she meets the brash Han Solo and his monstrous Wookie friend, neither of whom seem to like her very much at first. She instantly surmises that these doofuses have no real plan and takes charge of the rescue mission herself. Even when they’re safely away from the Death Star, they’re still pretty much strangers, and Han Solo begins going off on how he just wants to get paid.

None of these situations would be appropriate for wallowing in sadness, especially for a strong woman who’s committed herself to a hopeless rebellion. Perhaps she cried for her lost planet off screen in her prison cell or during the ride back to the rebel base. It might have been nice to see a scene of her mourning but we ultimately don’t need it to understand who she is and what she wants. The behavior we do see from her is entirely consistent with the state of the world and people around her, as it is with Luke.

Convinced? You don’t have to be to still have fun.

Even if you think these explanations are just some nerdy, pedantic bullshit from a guy who’s obviously spent too much of his social capital in the wrong places, the point remains that these plot holes don’t detract from your ability to enjoy A New Hope. It gets the most important elements right and that’s all that really matters. Because of this, you can sit back, enjoy the ride, and feel good when it’s over.

Just as people have been doing for 47 years — and will do for countless years to come.

Pretty much everything I do for both pleasure and pay is threatened by AI, which is a profoundly depressing experience. I’m not sure it has to be, though.

There’s a fatalistic certainty with which predictions of humanity’s impending obsolescence are proclaimed, and this, I think, is more the cause of our anxiety than the actual accuracy of the predictions themselves. That’s why it’s always good to remember how bad we are at foreseeing technology’s impact.

Just think how different the AI conversation sounded a few short years ago.

Most people, including tech-savvy-types, assumed automation would come for blue collar workers first. “We’ll have to find something for all those truck drivers to do,” we said, when it seemed like self-driving cars were only months away from perfection. Conversely, the idea of a bot writing decent copy and music or creating high-quality works of visual art still seemed like science fiction.

Why did we get it so backwards?

We Downplayed the Human Element

Technological advancement is not simply a matter of improved mechanical efficiency.

Everything we humans invent has to exist in our human world, which is governed by our unpredictable human whims. This is a huge hurdle for technologies that seek to diminish human involvement.

Driving in a human world is much more than a navigational exercise. It requires us to make lots of value judgments, often with only milliseconds to spare. The criteria for “correct” actions changes depending on context and doesn’t always follow linear logic, and the rewards don’t always make sense on paper.

If a dog runs out in front of my car, I’m going to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting it, even if it means causing an accident with the car behind me. In this scenario, the accident would actually be the reward state, whereas hitting the dog would be considered a failure even if no humans were hurt. Furthermore, I’m willing to bet the driver behind me will understand and empathize with my decision because we both share a cultural understanding of the human/canine bond. That said, if the roles were reversed, and the driver in front of me chose to hit the dog to avoid an accident with me, I would be sympathetic to that choice too.

That’s because I’m human and I get to assign meaning to the things that happen around me. Self-driving cars can’t do that at the moment, no matter how good they are at navigation, and it’s one of the reasons we’re not likely to see them adopted en masse anytime soon.

In short, our faulty predictions about self-driving cars came not from a failure to predict the linear path of technological improvement, but from our inability to control for the nonlinear human element of the world in which self-driving cars must exist.

I believe we should apply a similar analysis to fears over the automation of art and creativity.

These too must contend with the human element — and in its purest form: expression. Human production and consumption of expression is one of the most baffling subjects of all time, and sometimes we do things in pursuit of creativity that make so little sense it would seem we’re acting against our own best interest. And yet we succeed.

Case in point: The Strokes.

Allow me set the scene.

2001: Echoes of a Familiar Era

In 2001, music production technology was in a similar place as AI is today.

Classic equipment like analog tape was still in wide use but digital replacements were rapidly integrating into studios. They could overcome many of the limitations of analog gear, and Digital Audio Workstation software gave engineers and producers unprecedented control over every detail of a song. Broadly speaking, you could record more tracks and process them with a much higher degree of fidelity than ever before.

As studios adopted this new technology, music productions became more layered, precise, and sterile. A single kick drum might be comprised of several samples mixed together, mapped out on a grid so every hit was exactly on-tempo. Vocals could be pitch-shifted to be perfectly on key. Guitars could be overdubbed again and again, layered together for a “huge” sounding effect.

Consumer audio technology was also advancing at a fast clip.

Gone were the days of garbled Walkman cassette players and scratchy vinyl. CDs provided a consistent, high-quality listening experience, and MP3 players were becoming popular as well. Stock car stereos improved as did home audio systems and portable speakers. Average people without complicated hi-fi stereo setups could now hear music with an incredible level of clarity pretty much wherever they went, and music productions adapted to match that clarity.

If you simply looked at these technological trends, you’d expect music from then on out to only get more and more polished, with inhuman levels of precision dominating each mix. Indeed, by 2001, rough-and-tumble guitar rock had been declared dead. Grunge and hair metal were relics. Brit-pop’s Oasis was in decline and Radiohead gave up the guitar for electronic experimentation.

Anyone crusty enough to still play a six string was probably pumping out nü metal or pop punk — genres that were also clean and pristine compared to their grittier forebears. Yes, there was a “garage rock revival” in the independent music scene, but it was largely relegated to the cultural shadows, with bands like The Hives pumping out songs that were extremely rough-around-the-edges, aggressive, loud, and generally not for mass consumption.

Then came The Strokes.

The Strokes: Trendsetters, Trend Breakers

Trading on a “retro” style hearkening back to artists like The Stooges and The Velvet Underground, The Strokes hit the New York and UK alternative music scenes with moderate success. After recording a rough 3-song EP in a basement studio, they caught the ears of RCA, a major record label, and soon booked a recording contract with producer Gil Norton, who’d worked on alternative rock staples like The Pixies and Foo Fighters.

However, after recording a few songs with Norton, the band complained things were not going well.

The problem? Norton was doing too good of a job. Everything sounded too “clean.” This was perplexing feedback to RCA. The Strokes had unmistakable pop appeal, with tight arrangements, addictive hooks, and radio-friendly runtimes. They also exercised above-average brand discipline with their carefully curated retro-cool image (unsurprising, since frontman Julian Casablancas was the son of modeling magnate, John Casablancas). All they needed was some professional recordings, and they’d be on the major airwaves in no time.

Nevertheless, the band demanded to switch it up and work with then unknown producer, Gordon Raphael, the owner of that basement studio where they’d recorded their rough demo. In the time since, Raphael’s studio hadn’t undergone much improvement. It was still the same small-time, low-budget studio — which was exactly why the band wanted it.

“Whatever everybody else is doing right now, we wanna do the opposite,” the band told Raphael, and what everybody else was doing was making sterilized recordings in fancy studios.

How NOT to Produce Like a Pro

The Strokes and Raphael went about making some very unorthodox recording decisions using techniques that would horrify traditional studio engineers. They’d put microphones in strange places, allow instruments to “bleed” into each other in the mix, and generally break the rules of sonic clarity.

“We're not really interested in the individual instrument sounds,” said drummer Fabrizio Moretti. “We just like the way they dance together in the air.”

One of the more controversial decisions had to do with Casablancas’ vocals. He wanted his voice to sound “like your favorite blue jeans — not totally destroyed, but worn-in, comfortable.”

To achieve this, Casablancas ran his microphone through an 8-inch Peavy amplifier, the kind of dogshit practice amp you get when you’re first learning to play guitar, and Raphael recorded it as-is. It was a huge risk. Normally, you record vocals “clean” and then process them later, giving you the flexibility to adjust the sound if you don’t like what was originally recorded. The Strokes, on the other hand, were stuck with the sound of that crappy practice amp, just as they were stuck with the sound of that boxy basement studio for the other instruments.

This was done on purpose. It meant the record label couldn’t order the band to remix their songs to match the latest trends, which they certainly would have if they’d been able. They clearly didn’t appreciate what the band was trying to do. One A&R guy reportedly told them, “Guys, this is some of the most unprofessional sounding music I have ever heard. This is not going to sell, and you are really doing damage to your career by trying to release music that sounds this way.”

The resulting album, Is This It, went on to become one of the most influential records of the modern age (pun intended). And it wasn’t just The Strokes who got the last laugh.

Indie rock went mainstream shortly after the release, and Is This It played a huge role in bringing the musical underground to a broader listening base. Indie icons like Franz Ferdinand, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and even LCD Soundsystem owe at least some of their success to The Strokes.

Not A Rejection of Modernity — an Embrace

It’s easy to read about the recording of Is This It and see a story of young iconoclasts rejecting the shiny temptations of modernity’s supposed conveniences. The truth is that The Strokes and their producer, Raphael, could not have made this record without the latest technology of the time.

Although lo-fi by professional standards, Raphael’s studio did have modern equipment, such as Pro Tools and Logic Audio software setups. This allowed The Strokes to iterate to perfection, recording take after take in a way that would’ve been much harder, taken longer, and been infinitely more expensive with older technology. This iterative approach is one of the reasons the album sounds much “tighter” than other garage rock offerings of the time.

Raphael could also easily process individual elements for an even more stylized sound. For example, the opening drumbeat on “Hard to Explain” sounds like a drum machine. It’s not. It’s a live recording of Moretti’s real drum kit, manipulated afterwards to sound like a drum machine but with the natural feel that comes from the tiny imperfections of human performance.

Contemporary technology also played a role outside the album’s recording.

Is This It’s influential status came in no small part from an explosion of internet usage by the general listening public. The album technically wasn’t a huge hit according to the traditional charts — it would take years to reach platinum status — but burgeoning music blogosphere outlets like Pitchfork Media, peer-to-peer music sharing services like Napster, and burnable CD-Rs helped artists like The Strokes subvert music’s traditional gatekeepers and prove there was an audience for less commercialized genres.

Lessons for the Impending AI Apocalypse

All this is to say that, at the beginning of 2001, if you’d looked only at trends in music technology, you’d never have predicted the success of The Strokes or the entire indie rock phenomenon broadly. Why would anyone keep making gritty guitar rock when digital production technology made crisp, professional music so easy to obtain? Indeed, as the RCA suits demonstrated, even music industry pros didn’t see the indie movement coming — or, at least, not to the level it achieved.

However, if you’d paid more attention to the human element, you’d have seen that a significant part of the culture valued art with human flaws over mechanized perfection. You’d have noticed people weren’t just using Napster to steal Top 40 pop music but also to expose themselves to genres they couldn’t hear on the radio. You’d have realized the counterculture was bigger than kids buying studded belts at Hot Topic.

The last twenty-odd years have been so awash with indie rock and its six billion derivatives that it’s old-hat now. It’s been used to sell cars and cell phones. It plays in grocery stores. People are once again proclaiming guitar music dead, having worn itself threadbare in the years since 2001, while others insist it’s about to go through another revival.

All this time, polished, pristine pop has continued to thrive, and genres like country and metal have gotten sonic makeovers thanks to music technology. Newer genres like dubstep and hyperpop would be extremely difficult if not impossible without modern production software.

And music technology itself has never stopped advancing, solving some problems and creating others. Today, more people than ever are making great-sounding music without the need for expensive equipment or studios. But this explosion of artists combined with the mass adoption of streaming platforms has made it difficult to earn money.

Now, AI music generators can create halfway decent music from text prompts for free in a matter of seconds. What will that mean for the future music — or any discipline threatened by AI?

Tomorrow is Full of Challenge…and Hope

The true answer is no one really knows what’s going to happen, especially those who only look at the problem from a technological perspective.

We don’t yet know what kinds of cultures and subcultures will emerge from the new era of AI art or what kinds of opportunities will be created. It’s easy to look at the convenience of AI and conclude it will inevitably dominate human efforts — but that’s only if you think you know what humans will want to expend their efforts (and money) on in the future.

I’m not ready to make any concrete predictions.

The only thing we know for sure is that until the robot revolution wipes us all out, humans will be at the core of AI’s integration. So it’s really up to us what happens.

These five selections were my favorite reads of 2023, and will offer some perspective on subjects we’re likely to encounter in 2024. I hope you’ll add some of them to your list.

1. Time’s Arrow, by Martin Amis

The literary world lost Sir Martin Amis in May of last year, and time’s been steadily marching away from his resting place in our memories ever since. All we can do now is look back on his work across the growing distance, and soon only his greatest literary achievements will remain in view over our shoulders. Time’s Arrow will be among them.

The novel centers on a man named Tod T. Friendly, but it’s told from the viewpoint of a narrator who’s stuck inside of Tod’s head. If that wasn’t strange enough, this narrator also experiences Tod’s life in reverse. The story begins in the black nothingness of Tod’s death, only for him to suddenly spring back to life on the operating table as a decrepit old man. His life continues backwards from there.

The narrator discovers Tod is a doctor whose job is to make people sick. Patients come to his office healthy and he sends them away suffering from all kinds of maladies. Then, when morning rolls around, he returns home, applies stubble to his face with a razor, and goes to sleep for the night. As Tod grows younger, he moves closer to a dark secret in his past he’s been trying to hide from. The narrator doesn’t know what the secret is but can see its reverberations in Tod’s actions, dispositions, and relationships.  

It's an enthralling read, even if you spoil the dark secret by reading the book jacket. The time reversal mechanic provides a fascinating new perspective on the procession of life and how the consequences of our actions haunt us through time, no matter which direction we travel.

Something to think about in this consequential year.

2. Homage to Catalonia, by George Orwell

Mention Orwell these days, and literary snobs will roll their eyes and assume you’ve only read 1984 — maybe Animal Farm — and only because your high school English teacher made you. Setting aside that those are both very important (and perennially relevant) works, this is your chance to prove the smug literati wrong.

Homage to Catalonia is Orwell’s report of what he did and saw while volunteering in the Spanish Civil War, an incredibly confusing conflict fought over everything from political differences to economic division to religious sectarianism. Sound familiar?

In 1936, at the outbreak of the war, Orwell and his wife, Eileen, went to Spain to assist POUM, one of the many socialist militias fighting against a coalition of right-leaning factions trying to overthrow the Spanish government. Orwell writes of his time at the front with this plucky but ill-prepared militia, which ends abruptly when he’s shot in the throat. He then details his convalescence in sleepy Barcelona, where the war seems a distant affair until the various socialist, communist, and anarchist factions turn on each other. The Orwells are forced to flee back to England to avoid being imprisoned — or worse. It’s a story full of intrigue, political infighting, and a cast of characters so flamboyantly interesting, you’d think they were made up (Georges Kopp comes to mind).

Homage to Catalonia is often cited by war correspondents as the inspiration for their chosen profession. It’s written in Orwell’s trademark prose: engaging yet matter-of-fact, straight to the point without any flowery language or sensationalism, and boldly honest even towards his supposed comrades. It sheds some light on a moment of history often left dark in the American curriculum, and mirrors many of the same political problems we’re faced with today (albeit, with much less violence). Additionally, it also introduces casual Orwell readers to his first wife, Eileen, a pivotal figure in his life and an inspirational figure in her own right.

Make sure you get one of the later editions. Orwell edited the order of some of the chapters in later years, after getting a more distanced and holistic perspective on what he had experienced close up.  

3 & 4. The Hobbit & The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

Okay, this is a huge cheat because it’s technically four books in total. However, I think it’s best to treat The Lord of the Rings as one long book rather than a trilogy, if for no other reason than that it makes lists like these more convenient.

Chances are, you read The Hobbit at some point during your schooling, and thus might feel the series as a whole is meant only for kids and nerds. This is not the case. Although The Hobbit does read at a quicker and more action-filled pace than The Lord of the Rings, the whole series is choc-full of life lessons and epic feats of noble bravery.

So many stories written today (including many of mine) are full of ambiguous characters whose motivations are suspect and who spend just as much time flirting with the devil on their left shoulder as the angel on their right. Nihilism abounds as such characters question our notions and sacred beliefs: religion, the American Dream, Good vs. Evil, etc. That’s all well-and-good but it’s also refreshing every now and then to read a tale about a group of friends who love and respect not only each other but the world they inhabit, and who will struggle and sacrifice for the good of that world.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have some of those people around right now?

One of the greatest treats of this read is Tolkien’s prose. He writes in a lofty, archaic style similar to mythical epics or Biblical tales, which is a welcome diversion from the casual and ironic internet speak we’re used to these days. I certainly picked up a few new entries to my vocabulary along the way, and so will you, ere you finish the series and descry your next literary undertaking.

You’ll want to make good use of the map at the beginning of each book to keep track of the Fellowship’s journey. Tolkien spends a great deal of time describing Middle Earth, which can get confusing or boring if you’re disoriented. I’d also recommend watching Peter Jackson’s film trilogy first (extended version, of course) if you’re a newbie to help acquaint yourself with the characters, locations, and in-world mythologies. I found it easier to identify these elements when I could reference their analogues in the films, which are impressively accurate to the source material but different enough that you’ll still encounter many pleasant surprises.

This is one of the greatest works of literature of the modern era, and anyone who says otherwise is fooling themselves. The entire fantasy genre owes itself to Tolkien. You should read it at least once in your life.

5. The Prumont Method, by Trevor J. Houser

Trevor Houser has a knack for interesting premises and his prose reads a bit like Wes Anderson on paper with glib, quippy dialogue and scenery that appeals to a stylized, vintage aesthetic. He makes great use of brevity, while efficiently retaining all the relevant details and action, so his stories are easy to devour.

And he certainly doesn’t shy away from darkness. The Prumont Method is about an amateur mathematician named Roger Prumont who discovers a way to predict when and where mass shootings will occur. We’re dropped into the narrative as Roger is on his way to the site of the next American tragedy, where his theory will be put to its hardest test yet.

However, the novel isn’t some tedious polemic on gun control or the Second Amendment or anything like that. It’s an examination of the humanity that surrounds these now commonplace occurrences. What draws us to these events? What role do we play in their existence? What is our responsibility to our fellow humans — family, friends, strangers? Roger Prumont spends much of the novel contemplating such things, as well as the failures of his 50-odd-year life, his relationship with his daughter, and his motivations for pursuing this grizzly endeavor. The self-reflection is easily relatable to anyone who’s spent any time in front of the existential mirror.

We don’t need a math whizz to predict that a mass shooting will happen this year — it would be a statistical anomaly if one didn’t occur — but for most of us, the carnage will be something we experience via our screens for a few short moments. Then we’ll be onto the next entry in the endless scroll of outrage. Perhaps we, like Roger Prumont, can use those brief moments to reflect on where our lives intersect with the terror and muse on our next inevitable collision with it.

That’s all for now. Happy New Year! I hope you make the best of 2024 and read some good literature along the way. Speaking of which, next week, I’ll be back with a new short story, so stay tuned for that.

Subscribe now

One of the worst things about the internet is that any accomplishment-free nobody can get up on his soapbox and criticize the work of a brilliant artist who’s made several lifetimes’ worth of contributions to human creativity. The nerve of some people!  

Anyway, here’s my review of Hayao Miyazaki’s The Boy and the Heron.

(Intro music in audio version: “One Summer’s Day” from Spirited Away by Joe Hisaishi, performed somewhat competently by me.)

The first time I saw The Grand Budapest Hotel, I remember thinking that, although it was a fantastic and visually stunning film, it was also confirmation that Wes Anderson’s work had become irreversibly derivative of itself. His catalogue does have brief deviations of form, such as 2009’s Fantastic Mr. Fox, and later The Isle of Dogs, but even those retained Anderson’s hallmarks — flowery dialogue, monotone delivery, carefully art-directed Old-World scenery, recurring cast members, and so on — so you never for a moment forget you’re watching a Wes Anderson film. The plots of his movies are now beside the point. You go because you want to see a Wes Anderson film, not because you’re exceptionally interested in a story about an old hotel or a French variety magazine.

This isn’t a bad thing. In a modern age wallpapered by Disneyfied superhero schlock cranked out via assembly-line with an occasional speckling of A24 arthouse captained by fledgling directors, Anderson has managed to maintain a distinct style undiluted by passing trends or financial expediency. Nobody does it like him. If you like it, you like it. If you don’t, you don’t (and you make sure to tell everyone around just how much you don’t like it).

The point is you know what you’re going to get. Anderson’s films are like your favorite local cocktail bar. The drinks are good and sometimes there’s a new item on the menu but overall, you get what you expect.

This is not the kind of experience you want from a Hayao Miyazaki film. While Miyazaki has his own recurring hallmarks, each of his films stands on its own uniqueness, whether in story, feeling, or aesthetic. Princess Mononoke is miles apart from My Neighbor Totoro in both substance and target audience but both are powerful in a way that only Miyazaki can deliver. It’s the mystery of the adventure, both intellectual and emotional, that gets you excited for one of his films.

Unfortunately, The Boy and the Heron is more like Miyazaki’s version of late-stage Wes Anderson — a Greatest Hits compilations of themes and tropes that are explored better in his other films rather than a focused work of its own. It’s like Miyazaki saw a Miyazaki film and said, “I’m going to make a Miyazaki film.”

I suspect this is because the film is meant to be semi-autobiographical. Miyazaki turns the camera, so-to-speak, at himself in a way he’s never done before. In previous works, his childhood experiences, relationships, and philosophies were always explored in an abstracted manner, often through a young female protagonist or some other character who is not meant to be a direct stand-in for himself. The “problem,” if you can call it that, is he’s done such a great job exploring these things in his other work that it feels redundant here.

The second and more crucial problem has to do with the challenge that faces all autobiographical works: editing. In job interviews, most of us struggle to answer the “tell me about yourself” question with sufficient brevity. Now imagine you’re Miyazaki, deciding at 82-years-old to condense your entire life into 124 minutes. The result of attempting this challenge is a crowded film full of too many ideas and characters whose relationships and purposes are not given enough time to develop. As such, too much is either left up to interpretation or spelled out with uncharacteristic bluntness.

Let’s get into a couple of examples, which will include spoilers. But before we do, let me admit that I’ve only seen the film once in overdubbed English. There’s always a chance I missed something or that something was lost in translation or that there are some Japanese cultural references that I simply don’t understand.

Oh, and if you don’t want any spoilers, stop here and go see the film. Despite my criticisms, it’s definitely worth seeing. Any Miyazaki fan will find something to enjoy in this movie, even if it isn’t his greatest.

Subscribe now

Spoilers ahead. You’ve been warned.

In many ways, The Boy and the Heron falls short where much of modern cinema also fails: the balance of showing vs. telling. Go rewatch movies and TV shows from the past 6 – 8 years in similar genres (sci-fi, fantasy, Star Wars, Marvel, etc.) and you’ll notice a lot of the latter. Characters often describe plot points via clunky dialogue or explain how we, the viewer, are supposed to feel about a character, even if that character’s actions contradict what’s being said about them. We’re also expected to respect deep relationships between characters even when we see little evidence of their personal chemistry. Instead of allowing action and dialogue to reveal the evolution of these relationships over time, we’re simply told when something has changed.

An example of this in the The Boy and the Heron is Mahito’s relationship with Kiriko, the old woman who follows him into the spirit world and seemingly disappears until Mahito encounters her younger incarnation. Young Kiriko then becomes Mahito’s guide through the first part of his journey through the spirit world. Why? We don’t know. Back in reality, Kiriko is just one of the old ladies who lives at the estate with Mahito and his family. She’s not even the old lady who takes care of him after he injures himself with the rock. When Mahito first meets her in the spirit world, he recognizes her not because of her demeanor or because she’s playing a similar role to her real-life counterpart, but simply because of what she’s wearing. No indication is given that they have a special relationship in any way, and yet, in the spirit world, she becomes a figure of monumental importance.

At best, this can be interpreted as a symbol of things being reversed from reality in the spirit world. Old Kiriko follows Mahito in the real world while trying to prevent him from entering the spirit world, but on the other side Young Kiriko is the one leading him further into the spirit world. But that’s just a guess. All the film tells us is that we’re supposed to respect the importance of their relationship without showing us the particulars.

A similar tell vs. show problem occurs when Mahito encounters the younger version of his mother in the spirit world. First, he spies her from afar as she shoots flame into the sky to ward off predatory pelicans and later he meets her in person. Neither time does he display any emotion like surprise or confusion or joy or sadness even though earlier in the film we see several instances of him mourning her absence. I don’t know about you, but I’d be pretty flabbergasted if I saw my de-aged, previously dead mom shooting fire into the sky. Mahito, on the other hand, is rather stoic about the whole thing.

Compare this to the scene in My Neighbor Totoro when Satsuki breaks down crying in Granny’s arms after learning her mother won’t be coming home from the hospital. It brings you to tears because the film has been building up this moment. Up until then, Satsuki was playing the role of big sister, putting on a brave face for her father and younger sister Mae even though this terrible thing is happening to their family. This scene represents an evolution. From then on out Satsuki has to struggle between being a strong big sister and a frightened child. The complexity is touching and feels very relatable.

Mahito, by contrast, doesn’t change much throughout the entire film, so we’re never able to take emotional cues from him. A notable exception occurs when he finds Natsuko in the spirit world and she tells him she hates him. It’s shocking and forces him to acknowledge the consequences of having rebuked her many attempts at love and affection. He responds by finally calling her “Mother,” and it’s a powerful scene (in part because the spirit world around them is falling apart) but then the two are separated and not seen together again until the end of the film so the gravity of this transformation is not given time to develop. Again, we’re just told at the end, via a couple lines of dialogue, that he’s finally satisfied to accept her as his mother.  

Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps Miyazaki is trying to convey the real nature of such transformations, which still take time to develop even after one has committed to them. But then again, maybe it’s not.

Ironically, for a film that does so much telling, it’s rarely clear what the fuck’s going on. Case-in-point, the titular Heron character. I kept waiting for someone to explain why the Heron was actually a middle-aged balding man with a penis-nose, but that moment never comes. And why is the spirit world filled with giant, man-eating parakeets? Who is the Parakeet King supposed to represent and why doesn’t he show up until the end when he plays a huge role in the destruction of the spirit world? I’m not saying movies need to spoon feed all the answers to me but I would appreciate more clues than we’re given here.

Since the work is supposed to be semi-autobiographical, Miyazaki’s hardcore fans may understand some of the symbolism (this YouTuber does a thorough job of explaining such things) but I subscribe to the school that says a text should contain enough context inside of itself to be understood without reference to some other work — unless it’s part of a series or committing to abstraction wholesale in a Lynchian kind of way.

The phrase “dream logic” appears in other reviews I’ve read and you can undoubtedly see it at work in the film but I think the concept is doing a lot of heavy-lifting. Nearly the entire first half of the film takes place in reality, adhering to the logical rules of our everyday world. The Heron is the first indication that something otherworldly is happening, but the other characters can see him too, so we know Mahito is not dreaming his existence. Likewise, Natsuko’s grand-uncle’s mystical tower, which acts as the gateway between worlds, also exists in reality. Mahito has to physically travel through this portal to get in and out of the spirit world. This is a strong cue to the viewer that this spirit world will have strange rules of its own, but rules nonetheless, unlike a dream state, which can be entered simply via consciousness and can follow any tangent, constantly reforming its own internal logic at any given moment.

Recall how a similar construct is handled in Spirited Away. Chihiro enters the spirit world via the haunted amusement park at the very beginning of the film and is immediately initiated into the world through her interactions with Haku and Yin, who establish the logic of the world and set our expectations for the kinds of characters, events, and phenomena that will be encountered. With that accomplished, we can continue through the narrative and fill in the gaps where needed because we understand the basic rules. The Boy and the Heron is missing a similar world-building mechanism, so we’re left guessing in moments where our emotions should guide us. We don’t know what we’re seeing so we don’t know what to feel.

Overall, The Boy and the Heron can’t decide what it wants to be. Is it a surrealist, dreamlike narrative untethered from the traditional rules of storytelling? Is it an autobiographical tale full of meaningful symbolism? Is it a coming-of-age story about a boy accepting what fate has thrown at him? The film tries to do too much, be too many things, and introduce too many characters for it to accomplish any one of these directions to a satisfying degree. It feels more like the jumping off point for three or four other films that could be amazing in their own right, but together feel jumbled and confused.

That’s not to say it’s terrible. It’s just not Miyazaki’s best.

It greatly pains me to write anything less-than-ecstatic about a Miyazaki film. The man has overseen some of the most beautiful works of art ever produced in the medium of animation, and he’s earned his place among the pantheon of legendary filmmakers. There’s also no shame in having a weak film or two in such an impressive catalogue. That’s to be expected from any artist. The timing of this one is just a little bittersweet since it seems likely to be his last. That, I think, is why so many reviews are overly gushing about The Boy and the Heron’s greatness. It seems cruel to denigrate an old man’s work after all the wonderful things he’s made for us. Cruel or not, the truth is that The Boy and the Heron doesn’t compete with Spirited Away or My Neighbor Totoro or The Wind Rises. That bar is set so high that few could be expected to raise it again even in their prime, much less in their twilight.

I’d still recommend seeing The Boy and the Heron, if only to honor the great man. You will still have a good time. Just don’t expect to have the kind of transcendental experience you had the first time you saw a Miyazaki film. Those initial moments of awe are forever behind us, just like Mahito’s life with his mother, and can never be experienced again outside of dreams and memories.

(Outro music in audio version: “The Path of the Wind” from My Neighbor Totoro by Joe Hisaishi, performed pretty okay — not bad, even — by me)